Sharing Drinks
by eclaire291
Summary: Sometimes the best drink you have isn't about what you have, it's about the memory it carries with it. [Ongoing. Latest chapter: Mai Tai with Dean]
1. Black Coffee

**Title** : Sharing Drinks  
 **Characters/Pairings** : Various  
 **Author's Notes** : Unrelated short stories chronicling moments over shared drinks.  
 **Disclaimer** : I obviously don't own "Supernatural." If I did I'd make sure the writers didn't make Season 7 such a mess.  
 **Summary** : Sometimes the best drink you have isn't about what you have, it's about the memory it carries with it.

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 **About this chapter** : No slash; just Dean pondering life on the road with a mostly absent father. (Rated K+)

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 **1\. Black Coffee**

John Winchester doesn't stick around for long anymore. Just stopping in Bobby's or the church or whatever motel they're holed up at long enough to catch a few hours of sleep and down enough caffeine to get him through the job he's working. Dean's only seen him in glimpses — a shadow showing from under the bathroom door as he brushes his teeth, an elbow as he turns a corner, the back of his coat as he slips out a door. It's been a little more than a month since they've actually had a conversation beyond the usual orders: Watch out for Sammy, stay out of trouble, lock the doors.

It's been longer since Sam has seen their father; though, Sam doesn't seem to mind. Six years old is too young to even care when there are trees to climb and hidden places to discover and other kid stuff to occupy his time. So Dean doesn't blame him when Sam sleeps on instead of waking with a gasp at the sound the front door slamming. He glances at the clock on the bedside table. It's barely five in the morning. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Dean throws back the sheets and scrambles out of bed and down the hall. His surroundings are still a bit blurry as he tries to fight past his exhaustion and fully wake up. Almost falling down the stairs, he rushes into the kitchen, smelling burnt toast and coffee.

"Dad!" he says expectantly.

The kitchen is empty, and his heart sinks. The only evidence that John was even there is the plate left on the table with a few stray crumbs on it and a chipped mug sitting next to it. There's a note this time, scrawled hastily on a scrap of paper on the table. Dean doesn't bother. He knows what it says: _Be back in a few days._ Same as always. The same lie.

His body suddenly feeling too heavy, Dean collapses into one of the chairs at the table and drops his face into his palms.

"Damn it," he whispers. And then, louder, because he's 10 and doesn't feel like obeying his father's no-cursing rule, "Damn it!"

He chastises himself almost immediately for losing his temper and strains to hear whether Sam was woken up. There's no creak of bed springs or shuffling footsteps, so Dean breathes out a sigh and grabs the plate and mug still on the table. He rises slowly to his feet and goes over to the sink, laying the plate on the stack of dirty dishes slowly piling up in a dirtier sink. He's about the put the mug in when he notices a few mouthfuls of tar-black coffee still sloshing around at the bottom. He's already broken one rule today by swearing, so he decides that a bit of coffee can't hurt. He swigs the leftover coffee in one gulp and grimaces as that burnt-bitter, earthy taste coats his mouth.

He misses his father, but he doesn't cry. He does, however, drink coffee every morning at dawn for a week and three days until John finally comes home, too exhausted to talk and too broken up by whatever he'd seen and done to look Sam and Dean in the eye. So, Dean dumps some instant coffee in a mug of hot water for John. And, when he hands him the coffee, holds on tight to that brief flicker of a smile on his father's face.


	2. Green Tea

**Title** : Sharing Drinks  
 **Characters/Pairings** : Various  
 **Author's Notes** : Unrelated short stories chronicling moments over shared drinks.  
 **Disclaimer** : I obviously don't own "Supernatural." If I did I'd make sure the writers didn't make Season 7 such a mess.  
 **Summary** : Sometimes the best drink you have isn't about what you have, it's about the memory it carries with it.

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 **About this chapter** : No slash. Bobby and John face some issues. Nothing is resolved. (Rated T)

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 **2\. Green Tea**

Bobby Singer finds himself awakened by water splashing in his face. Or, at least, what he hopes is water as he scrabbles upright and finds himself sitting in a dingy prison holding cell. Standing above him is Sheriff Fredericks, a thumb hooked in his belt loop and the other hand clutching a half-empty bottle of water. He scowls down at Bobby and grudgingly offers him the remaining water.

"Thanks," Bobby says hoarsely, his mouth too dry and his tongue still coated with a bit of bile.

The sheriff shakes his head.

"Singer," he says. "You did a hell of a job on ol' Tommy Hanson's face last night."

Bobby, still a bit too hungover to recall anything specific, just cringes and downs the water. He was blackout last night, he knows that. Hell, it had been a few weeks since he'd done anything but drink himself blind at night. Except last evening he'd made the mistake of leaving his house and heading out to the bar. He knew Tommy, and the guy had a way of getting under his skin. It didn't surprise him that he'd ended up getting in a bar fight with the moron.

"So, you arresting me?" Bobby asks.

Rubbing the back of his neck and putting on that pained, tired look all too common on law enforcement, Sheriff Fredericks lets out a breath.

"Look, I'm going to give you a choice: a year of probation, a charge of public drunkenness and assault on your record, and fines and restitution out your ass. Or you sign up for Alcoholics Anonymous," he says. "And I'm asking you to stop being so damn pigheaded and just do AA."

"Yeah? What if I don't?"

"It's not a choice. I was just letting you know the alternative to put things into perspective and hopefully make you see some sense. See, I've already called up your friend and asked him to make sure you get your ass to those meetings. He has someone on the way to bail you out now."

The headache hits suddenly, feeling like his brain is rebelling against his skull. Bobby fights back a wave of nausea and tries desperately to figure out who on earth the sheriff would mistake for his friend.

"Who'd you call?"

The sheriff holds out Bobby's cellphone and shrugs, saying, "Called the first number on your call history. Rufus Turner. He said he was stuck in Atlanta and to let you know he thinks it's funny as hell that you got your ass locked up for being a drunken, redneck sonuvabitch. His words, not mine." Bobby scoffs because he knows that the sheriff holds him in the same regard. Fredericks shakes his head, a smirk on his lips as if conceding Bobby's unspoken point, and continues, "He said he'd get word out and have a, uh... a John Winchester fellow pick you up and get you to meetings."

"Balls," Bobby mutters.

And that's how he ended up sitting on a plastic, folding chair in a church basement, sharing his feelings and other such bullshit with a bunch of other drunks.

A few feet away sits the man he'd threatened to kill just three months ago. John Winchester, looking as haggard and distracted as always, is slumped in a chair outside the meeting area, his eyes closed like he's sleeping but his body tense enough that it's clear he's not. Probably still waiting to see if Bobby will make good on that threat.

It wasn't for lack of trying last time. It was clear John cared a lot for his sons, Sam and Dean, but that man got too caught up trying to toughen them up that he didn't leave room for them to actually be kids. Bobby had gotten stuck watching out for them more times than he could count on one hand while John was out hunting and they'd become like family to him. One night he couldn't stand the thought of following John's instructions to take the boys out to practice shooting and he let them spend the day at a park. Not one to miss anything, John figured it out and got in an argument with Bobby that boiled down to John telling Bobby that he could raise his own children however he damn well pleased.

That wasn't something that sat well with Bobby and things had escalated from there. He tries not to think about it, but he thinks the guilt might have been getting to him. Probably the reason he'd hit the rotgut so hard lately, and how he ended up in a musty church cellar.

After the AA meeting ends with the usual sobriety promise nonsense that Bobby knows he won't keep — Rufus sent him a bottle of Blue Label that he's been taking a generous swig from each night to get to sleep — he joins John in the hallway that smells like mildew and mothballs. John's eyes open immediately, and he unfolds his arms, grabbing his keys to drive them back to Bobby's place.

"We're doing this whole apology thing now. A way to unburden ourselves or something," Bobby mentions, meaning the AA but realizing he might have something to say to John.

John tenses, and Bobby thinks it is ridiculous walking on eggshells around this man who's lost just as much as Bobby. Eyes darting to the folding table at the end of the hall, he leaves John there and goes to get a coffee. The carafe is empty — it figures there wouldn't be any left, coffee and cigarettes are an AA member's lifeline. After some searching, he gives up and pours some lukewarm water from the water cooler into two foam cups and drops tea bags into them. He returns and offers one of the cups to John.

The man takes a sip and raises an eyebrow, saying, "Green tea?"

"Supposed to be healthy for you," Bobby answers, shrugs.

They stand there for a bit, just drinking the tea in companionable silence. Or, at least, what Bobby would like to think is companionable silence but is probably more along the lines of not knowing what to say. So Bobby breaks the silence first.

"I was going to apologize for shooting at you last time I saw you. But I realized I'm not sorry for trying to get you to see what an idjit you are," he says.

John winces. Bobby remembers yelling at him from the front porch, promising to fill him full of rock salt just like those demons he was hunting. Telling him he was a damn fool for dragging the boys around like they were hunters, giving them guns and knives instead of letting them go through school and make something of their lives. Not seeing that he still had his sons even if he'd lost his wife, but he wasn't going to have them much longer if he kept dragging them right into the firefights with monsters and all those darkest things.

"You shot the car," John says, an edge to his voice.

"You're lucky I was drunk. I was aiming for you. I missed," Bobby admits.

John leans back against the peeling wallpaper, lets his head _thunk_ against the wall. He rubs a palm over his face, as if trying to wipe away the stress, the exhaustion. It doesn't work. Bobby takes another bracing sip of tea, trying not to think about how much he wished it were coffee or something stronger.

"I'm trying," John admits, taking Bobby by surprise.

They finish their tea in silence after that, and five weeks later Bobby quits AA and John goes to meet up with Pastor Jim and the kids. Bobby stays sober for a full year.

It's another year before he talks to John again.


	3. Mai Tai

**Title** : Sharing Drinks  
 **Characters/Pairings** : Various  
 **Author's Notes** : Unrelated short stories chronicling moments over shared drinks.  
 **Disclaimer** : I obviously don't own "Supernatural." If I did I'd make sure the writers didn't make Season 7 such a mess.

* * *

 **About this chapter** : No slash (well, maybe there is if you squint and tilt your head), timeline vaguely post-Season 8. Just a look into Dean having some down time — or a mental breakdown — while waiting for the next job. (Rating: T)

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 **3\. Mai Tai**

Plaid shirts, button-downs, the occasional Henley, and jeans.

That was the entirety of the Winchester wardrobe. Sure, when he was at Stanford University, Sam had dressed what Dean liked to call, with a barely concealed smirk on his face, "preppy," but on the road, it just wasn't practical to bring along anything more complicated than some casual shirts and jackets. A few other items were stored in the trunk for when they had to go undercover, but largely they relied on those basic clothing staples.

"Denim-wrapped nightmares."

That's what Castiel told them Crowley had once referred to them as.

So, considering all previous lack of clothing diversity, it goes without saying that Sam was more than a little taken aback when he wandered into the library of the Bunker one afternoon to find Dean with his feet up on the table, sporting an appallingly colorful Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. The record player was on in the background, filling the room with falsetto-laden surf rock by The Beach Boys, which freaked Sam out almost as much as the sight of a Hawaiian shirt because he had no idea where that record had even come from. Dean was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed as he sipped some sort of drink that looked suspiciously cocktail-like and not at all like the straight whiskey usually kept in the Bunker.

"Uh…" that was all Sam could manage at the moment, stopped dead.

One eyelid cracked open, a grin cracking with it.

"Sammy!"

And then Dean's pushing himself upright, almost falling out of the chair. Contents in the highball glass still in his hand sent sloshing up the sides, some making its way onto the table. _Well, he's definitely drunk._ Somehow that's a comforting thought, letting Sam cast the vague fears of possession and shapeshifters to the back of his mind for the moment.

"Sammy!" Dean says, all glee and drunk-stupid. "D'ya… do you know that we've never been to the beach?"

He pauses, lets that sink in as if he's letting Sam in on a secret. Sam's brow furrows and he nods, reluctantly letting Dean talk through this until Sam can decide what's going on. His eyes flicker to the record player. Cursed object, maybe? He shakes his head minutely, expelling that possibility for the moment and fixing his gaze on Dean once more.

"Uh…" Sam answers, clears his throat. "I know we've never…"

Dean interrupts, waving off whatever else Sam wants to say as he raises his voice just a bit, "Dad dragged us all over the freakin' place when we were on the job and never once got us to a beach. Never. Thought about it when I came to get your ass at Stanford. Can't find more coastline than in the Bay Area. Fives beaches, Sam." He holds up his hand as if Sam might not remember how to count. "Five. All within an hour of the place. But then, everything happened."

Dean takes another deep sip of his drink and sighs.

"And everything's kept happening since. Can't blame it. Not like I have anything to complain about. Sometimes I even like the life, I guess. But, just once I wanted to be one of those white-collar losers getting tan and sipping drinks out of coconuts, you know?" The momentary melancholy melts away in an instant, and Dean plucks the pineapple chunk off the side of his glass and pops it into his mouth. He grins and says, "Found some rum in the cabinet and thought, 'what the hell, I'm making myself a Mai Tai and a little piece of paradise right here in Kansas.' "

"A Mai Tai? What…"

"Rum, curacao and lime juice on the rocks. Seriously, best girly-ass pink drink I've ever had — like Hawaii in a glass. Want one, Sam? Took me a bit to get it right… eight tries, I think, but it's damn delicious," he insists.

Dean gets to his feet, a bit unsteady and grabs a bottle of white rum from the side table against the wall. Still a bit flabbergasted, Sam watches as Dean shakes the cocktail and manages to pour only half of it over the table and onto the floor. Even odder is the open can of pineapple on the table, from which Dean fishes a chunk of the sweet fruit and sticks it on the rim as a garnish. Whatever Dean has going on right now, it was apparently thought through enough that Dean was able to buy curacao, pineapple, and a tacky Hawaiian shirt. Before Sam can comment on this, Dean holds the cocktail out to Sam who automatically takes it because he can't quite manage protest against that look on his face. It's a look of pure happiness that Sam can't remember ever really seeing before on his brother.

"So… we're in Hawaii?" Sam asks, his amusement overtaking his suspicions.

"Damn, right," Dean insists, leaning back and closing his eyes again. "Sun, ocean, sand, all of it. Right here. Seriously, feel that sun."

Yeah, he'd lost it. _Mental breakdown,_ Sam notes. _Wonder if Cas can do something to fix that._ Maybe he was delirious? Suffering some sort of delusion.

"And the Hawaiian shirt?" Sam ventures.

"All part of the vacation package. Here…" he reaches down to a bag by the leg of the table. He comes up with a palm print shirt, less colorful but no less Hawaiian, and tosses it to Sam who catches it reflexively. "Got you one, too."

Sam makes a soft sound of disbelief at the back of his throat, saying, "You look like you just escaped from a Jimmy Buffet concert, man."

"Don't be a bitch, Sammy," Dean says, groaning in exasperation and rubbing a palm over his face, not helping him look any less drunk. "We've been dragging ourselves all over the place chasing leads on that tablet. I need a break, a vacation. Let me have this. Shut your face and drink your damn Mai Tai."

The first notes of "California Girls" starts up in the background, and Dean begins humming along. Dropping into the chair across from his brother, Sam is sure he stares a bit. He's still not entirely convinced some sort of demonic possession or supernatural event hasn't taken place to cause this inexplicable behavior. Dean's been burnt out by the job before, but it usually resulted in trashed hotel rooms or him crawling into a bottle. Pop-harmony beach ballads and wistful whims wasn't something Sam would ever associate with his brother.

He makes the mistake of looking over at Dean and catches him watching with a raised eyebrow.

"You didn't put the shirt on. Come on, it's the beach," he says.

Sam shakes his head and compromises by taking a sip of the Mai Tai instead. Dean brightens immediately and raises his glass a bit in a half-hearted toast. Trying not to cringe at the immediate burst of sweet liquid coating his tongue, Sam waits for the rum to catch up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It wasn't bad. Dean was right; it did taste like the beach.

"Enjoy the sun, Sam."

Shaking his head, Sam regards his brother with amusement and a bit of concern that he tries to hide. Dean's drunk enough that he won't notice. But, Sam still decides to humor his brother. He stretches his arms over his head and then leans back in his own chair, letting out a contented sigh as if the sun really were beating down on him. Even with his eyes closed, he can tell Dean is grinning.


End file.
